


There'll Be Bluebirds

by blanketed_in_stars



Series: 52 Weeks of Wolfstar [29]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cemetery, Cliffs of Dover, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Moving On, maybe sometime soon i can stop using the grief/mourning tag?, probably not, this is rl/sb after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4411790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius feels dirty. Remus rights him, dusts him off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There'll Be Bluebirds

**Author's Note:**

> Week 29
> 
> We had a death in the family and my cousin is in the hospital, so next week might be late.

Sirius changes back into himself, letting go of fur and teeth, and takes stock of his aching joints. The sun is just setting over the cliffs. He watches the fiery light play over Buckbeak's feathers for a few moments before rubbing the sleep from his face and dragging himself over to the water.

The River Stour is icy and sharp, but Sirius forces his limbs not to shake as he lays down on the rocky bed. The current tugs at his clothes, his hair, and he goes numb. Something worse than a headache builds in his fingers and spreads to his ribs, so that he can't think. It's good. It's clean.

Remus finds him like that, eyes closed, pale. Sirius hears the _crack_ of his Apparition and the rustle of his footsteps in the grass.

"That looks cold."

Sirius doesn't open his eyes. He parts his lips and says with a wintry tongue, "It is. You should try it."

Remus makes a little noise, one that Sirius remembers clearly as meaning _certainly not, Black, go boil your head._ "No thanks."

"Your loss." Sirius sits up and shakes his head, sending water droplets flying. He opens his eyes to see Remus half-frowning. "What?"

"Is it wise to catch hypothermia when you don't even have a wand?"

"I don't need a wand," Sirius says, "not for drying off, anyways." He clambers out of the river, sopping wet. The cool evening air does nothing to lessen the ache of ice on his skin. "Dogs are made for that sort of thing, you know."

"Of course. So you just shiver as Padfoot instead of like this?" Remus gestures at Sirius's fingers, which are indeed trembling. Before he can say anything, Remus pulls out his wand. He waves it in a complicated formation and points the tip at Sirius's robes, drying them quickly.

"Thanks," Sirius says, rolling his eyes. "Always one for the handy spells, weren't you, Moony?"

Remus walks around him to point his wand at Sirius's back. "I should hope so. You made me heat your tea enough times, if I didn't get the hang of it eventually I'd have had no friends." He laughs a little. "Even in Charms, seventh year—the bread-toasting spell, d'you remember? You and James kept burning yours, and Peter—"

Remus stops.

Quickly, now. "Did you forget how to mend clothes, though?" Sirius asks after only a moment's hesitation. He turns around to eye the patches and darns in Remus's robes.

"Oh, I…" Remus seems grateful for the distraction, but no happier. "I've had rather a lot on my mind lately," he says. "There's this woman—not sure if you've heard of her—Dolores Umbridge?"

Sirius shakes his head.

"She works for the Ministry, somewhere high up. Got a bit of a problem with, ah, people like me. Everyone who's not a wizard, really. A few months ago she drafted a regulation that says—more or less—that werewolves aren't fit to hold jobs, at least nothing worth holding." Remus's lips twist sideways into an uncharacteristic snarl. "Timed it just right for when I stopped teaching, of course."

Remus puts his wand away and glares at the river. "It's worse than last time. They made an addition to the Werewolf Capture Unit, something about house searches."

"Wish you could come on the run with me," Sirius says. He doesn't really mean it, and knows Remus doesn't expect him to, but he doesn't know what to say. They aren't at war anymore. Remus shouldn't have to be this again—the hard eyes and snapping syllables. "I mean, you wouldn't have a house, but they couldn't search it then either."

Remus looks at him and his gaze softens. After a moment, he says, "I can't."

"I know."

"But…" Remus chews on his lip like he's making a decision. Sirius waits. "You know what day it is, I suppose."

Sirius nods. His hair, still wet, brushes his face.

Remus quickly dries it, taking his wand out again. He doesn't speak until he's finished. "I visit the cemetery each year," he says at last. "I wondered—maybe you'd like to come?"

"As Padfoot?" Sirius checks.

"Yes," Remus says. He shrugs his shoulders as if to apologize. "I just thought it might be something that you… I don't know, something that you need."

"It is," says Sirius, surprising himself a little. He can imagine only too well how much this will hurt, and yet. And yet.

"Oh." Remus looks pleased, if taken aback. Then he casts a glance to one side. "What about him?"

Sirius looks and sees Buckbeak regarding them both with a haughty orange gaze. "He's brilliant," Sirius says fondly. "He'll wait here. Won't you?" he calls.

Buckbeak chitters loudly.

Sirius turns back to Remus. "He's fine. Shall we go?" He's afraid that if he thinks about it for too long he'll lose his nerve.

Remus nods and holds out an arm. Sirius takes it. Before he can draw another breath, he is sucked into darkness. The next time he opens his eyes, they are standing on a narrow street, all of the windows shuttered against the absence of the sunset.

Remus disengages his arm. "Quick. Don't let anyone see."

Sirius knows he's right. He knows. But the shape of the spine, the ears, so often a refuge these days, feels wrong. The stones of this street are meant to be felt with feet, not paws. He remembers it.

They don't go by the house, but straight to the cemetery. Padfoot follows dutifully, a few steps behind. When they reach the headstone, all covered in leaves, it smells like stone and, predictably, leaves. He sniffs for James's broomstick polish, Lily's potions and tea, but there is nothing. Not even a trace. He didn't expect it, but feels the hole in his chest all the same.

Remus stands back, giving him what little privacy is safe. He clasps his hands behind his back and is silent.

It's difficult, with Padfoot's brain, to understand exactly what this is. All he knows is that his friends are gone, gone, gone—but even a dog knows where he's standing. A tombstone makes a poor substitute for faces and hands and smiles.

He doesn't notice when he becomes Sirius again. The pain takes over, an animal in and of itself, and that's all. But Remus makes a noise of concern, and suddenly Sirius realizes that he's kneeling with one arm outstretched to clutch the stone. It's cold under his fingers.

Remus kneels beside him, a hand on his shoulder making them a chain between the living and the dead. He opens his mouth and Sirius braces for it, to be told to change back, but what comes out is, "I know."

Sirius thinks about that—about what Remus knows. This grief, it's a mountain, an ocean. He's kept it at bay for thirteen years by thinking of other things, but here it crushes him. Remus, though, has had to bear the weight all that time. He must know, intimately and exquisitely, the rip and drag of this tide. It must rake over him with each breath he takes.

And still Remus has the strength to comfort him with words and a touch. It’s so simple, so unthinkable.

He hasn’t cried for them yet, and he won’t start now—but he leans into the hand on his shoulder. Relies on that fortitude and draws it into himself.

“When I saw them,” he says hesitantly, because although he needs to say it, he is still so afraid, “that night, you know—the first coherent thought I had was of you.”

Remus says nothing.

“I was scared. Really scared. Not just then, but for months beforehand. More than a year, I think.” He remembers the bitter taste of lies in his throat. “Everyone was suspicious, and there was a funeral every week—” He stops. Swallows. Goes on. “I knew you were upset, you didn’t want to be stuck in the house, and then people started talking about a spy—someone passing information—everything went to shit.”

He will not look behind him. “I thought it was you. I’m sorry. I thought, all the newspapers under the mattress… why shouldn’t you try to save yourself? And then we didn’t talk. You remember.” It’s clear, from the painful grip on his shoulder, that he does. “I didn’t know what to do, Remus. I didn’t know what to say. And I was so busy driving you away that I didn’t understand until it was too late.” He blinks furiously. “And then—I saw them—and I knew right away. I wanted to tell you. I didn’t know it would end like this, I thought we would have time.”

Then he turns because he needs this, too. And Remus is white and taut. Sirius feels as if he has just been dug up, unearthed, a dirty, worm-covered fragment shoved into open air. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I should have told you before. I should have talked to you.”

Remus relaxes the hand on his shoulder but doesn’t let go. “You’re talking to me now.” He reaches out to touch the engraved words on the tombstone. “Everything we did,” he says slowly, “we did because we loved them. And because we loved each other.” He smiles, just a little.

Sirius can’t speak without something inside fracturing, but he can smile back, even if it does tremble. He wants to apologize again—thirteen years have fooled him into thinking this sin will never be forgiven—wants to beg on his knees.

But he’s already on his knees, and so is Remus, both of them kneeling in the dead grass and still, somehow, together. And the hand on his shoulder doesn’t mind that he is newly unburied and still filthy with grave dirt. Sirius thinks it might be what resurrected him.

**Author's Note:**

> "The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater." - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring


End file.
